Page:The Sunday Eight O'Clock (1916).pdf/129



HEN the Barrows family filed into church—father, mother, and the seven little red-headed Barrowses,—we always knew that the services were pretty well under way. I used to think sometimes that the minister planned his sermon with their coming in mind, and allowed time for a pause or a breathing spell while they were getting comfortably arranged in their pews.

The congregation was never quite settled until they arrived, for they attended regularly, though they were punctiliously and dependably late, like some instructors to an eight o'clock or like the Big Four between Peoria and Indianapolis. I used to wonder why, although we lived two miles farther from the church than they, we always arrived on time for the opening hymn and the collection while they escaped half the ser-